DELAY not, sinner, till the hour of pain
To seek repentance; pain is absolute,
Exacting all the body and the brain,
Humanity's stern king from head to foot:
How canst thou pray, while fevered arrows shoot
Througn this torn targe, while every bone doth ache,
And the scared mind raves up and down her cell
Restless, and begging rest for mercy's sake?
Add not to death the bitter fears of hell;
Take pity on thy future self, poor man,
While yet in strength thy timely wisdom can,-
Wrestle to-day with sin; and spare that strife
Of meeting terrors in the van,
Just at the ebbing agony of life.
THREE VERSIONS OF ADRIAN'S APOSTROPHE
ANIMULA, vagula, blandule,
Hospes, comesque, corporis,
Quæ nunc abibis in loca?
Pallidula, rigidi, nudula,
Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos?
Pleasant little fluttering sprite,
Long my bosom's merry guest,
Whither now to wing thy flight?
Ah! thou frozen little wight,
Palc, and naked, and unblest,
Never more a jibe or jest?
Soft little butterfly-guest of my heart, Whither now flittest thou, spirit of mine? Woe, for thy merriment must it depart Naked and frigid and pallid te pine?
And if now the skies look black
All the past behind my back,
Is a bright and blessed track;
Never mind!
Stand in patient courage still,
Working out thy Master's will,
Compass good, and conquer ill;
Never mind!
Fight, for all their bullying boast,
Dark temptation's evil host,
This is thy predestined post;
Never mind!
Be then tranquil as a dove;
Throug these thunder-clouds above
Shines afar the heaven of love;
Never mind!
THE CROMLECH DU TUS, GUERNSEY⚫
HOARY relic, stern and old,
Heaving huge above the mould
Like some mammoth, lull'd to sleep
By the magic-murmuring deep,
Till those grey gigantic bones
Gorgon-time hath frown'd to stones,
Who shall tell thine awful tale,
Massy Cromlech at "The Vale?"
Ruthless altar, hungry tomb
Superstition's throne of glan,
Where, in black sepulchral state.
See an interesting paper by Mr. F. C. Lukis, he a April, 1845.
High the hooded Spectre sate,
Terrible and throng'd by fears
Brooding for a thousand years
As a thunder-cloud above
All that wretched men may love,-
Is there no grin witness near
That shall whisper words of fear,
Every brother's heart to thrill,
Every brother's blood to chill,
While thy records are revealed,
And thy mysteries unsealed?
Lift, with Titan toil and pain,
Lift the lid by might and main, -
Lift the lid and look within
On this charnel house of Sin!
O, twin brethren, how and when
Dwelt ye in this rocky den!
Rise, dread martyrs! for your bones
Chronicle these cromlech-stones!
Rise, ye grisly, ghastly pair,
-Skeletons! how came ye there
Kneeling starkly side by side
More like life than those who died?
More like life?-O what a spell
Of horror cowers in that cell!
More like life?- Alive they went
Into that stone tenement,
Bound as in religious ease
Meekly kneeling on their knees,
And the cruel thongs confin'd
All but the distracted mind,
That with terror raved to see.
Woe! how slow such death would be
Woe! how slow and full of dread:
Pining, dying, but not dead
Pining, dying in the tomb,
Drown'd in gulfs of starving gloom,
With corruption, hideous fear,
Creeping noiselessly more near,
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